[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

Deimos Yes was enough, enough, enough; satisfaction and contentment on their vibrant fringes, the apprehension there lifted and guided, off into the rivulets and the fronds, spinning and spilling off of her blushing cheeks, the sudden youthful smile curling along his lips. At the very least, he was capable of granting her something; even if it was innate and inherent, a natural, carnivore expression and pursuit, flanked on the heels of lust and wanton desires, but pressed in affection and adoration, in love and devotion, his vows an assurance in the intimacy, in the press and yearning, in the entanglement of limbs and heartache and the unknown. But a shadow clouded and veiled over the luminescent beams, and his brow furrowed, confused, rattled, addled, at the quick, vicious descent, and something like consternation and apprehension flicker along his bones and flesh, regard it with insistent, malicious contortions. Maybe you weren’t enough mired and muddled, clawed its way through his insides, and he breathed, a long, withering exhale, disregarding the unease, the disquiet, until she explained. There could’ve been a thousand broken little things stinging and tearing at his marrow, and despite the inclination to retreat straight back into diffidence, into reserve, where it was safe, where emotions didn’t cross, where vulnerabilities were tucked away and driven out of sight, out of mind, this was not the moment, the instant, to slide back into those nooks and crannies; dying a little more on the threads of each loss. Was this where they were damned to fizzle apart, because he couldn’t interpret her misgivings, because something was hollow and wrong in his brazen void, in his emboldened abyss? Why did it need to unravel at all? Why couldn’t he stitch some seams back together, knot and gnarl them back into some form, into some pleasure, into something from before? He thought about doing just that, finding a way to fix, to coil away the strands – But her words finally resounded, echoed, as he strived to lift her head back up to his, so his gaze segmented into hers and she could see, could understand, every proportion of his faith and adherence. “I am not everyone,” he proclaimed, a proud, haughty entanglement, meant to soothe her, amuse her, but also proclaim his differences; he didn’t stray, he didn’t loiter, he didn’t vanish into the ether. Everyone else had done the same to him: but not by choice, by death and desecration, by the final threads, breaths, and heartbeats, buried by his hands and his silence, each hushed mourning a little more like digging his own tomb. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised that Frey had come up in all this; of course she’d entangled herself with a deity known for their sexual provocations – perhaps she hadn’t been immersed in someone steady, stalwart, or even trustworthy. The Reaper pressed his lips to her brow and sighed, uncertain of how to proceed or to further convince her he wasn’t about to flee. Somewhere, lost and amidst the clearing, she’d been betrayed and cast aside, and it was bewildering, saddening thing, to believe countless others would leave her behind – but they’d done the same to him. How many times had they simply no longer looked at him, because he didn’t know how to let them in, when he’d already become stained and mottled and burdened with hostility, with acrimony, with treachery, a weapon in the hands of monarchs? While he’d pushed them away, away, away, Amalia had somehow been forgotten, different lines associated with the same bristling, mauled path. The warrior hadn’t allowed it to break him – in a way, he supposed, more shell and vessel and maneuvering carcass, a predator, a monster, in the lightest of moments – but the baker’s haunted and loomed. She tucked and hid along his shoulder, and he let her stay there, not forcing her to meet his gaze, not if she didn’t care to, not if it hurt; tongue running over his teeth as he muddled and mired himself back into what to do, what to say. “I am not going,” he proffered, hands pulling her in, clutching, mooring her into his chest and figure, a whisper on the ethers of what should’ve just been pleasure and amusement. “How can I convince you?” Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime